


A Warrior through the Eyes of the Captain

by for_darkness_shows_the_stars



Series: Potentiam Tuam Sanguinem [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Skywalkers are eldritch horrors I'm sorry I don't make the rules, The FO doesn't pay Phasma enough to deal with this BS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23787241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_darkness_shows_the_stars/pseuds/for_darkness_shows_the_stars
Summary: During a battle for the glory of the First Order, Captain Phasma contemplates what makes Supreme Leader Snoke's lapdog so special.
Relationships: Phasma & Kylo Ren
Series: Potentiam Tuam Sanguinem [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711054
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	A Warrior through the Eyes of the Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!!!

**A Warrior through the Eyes of the Captain**

The world around her is a collage of blood-reds and mud-browns, spiced with the sounds of blaster shots and the wailings and the screams of the dying (not her soldiers, _never_ her soldiers, they were far too well trained for something like that, the weakness within them eradicated from a young age).

Trough the visor of her helmet, she can make out her men, their normally spotless white armour marred with gore and filth, relentlessly shooting at the primitive natives, who attempt to fend off the First Order’s attack with weapons crafted of stone and wood.

Needless to say, their efforts are more than useless.

Phasma hears a loud _clang,_ and catches onto the matter pretty quickly. A native warrior had attempted to kill her by means of a rock-tipped spear slammed into her back.

The pathetic weapon doesn’t leave so much as a scratch on the polished surface of her armour, fashioned out of the salvaged scraps of _Imperialis_ , the late Emperor Palpatine’s yacht. Sometimes, Phasma muses, it feels almost unreal, wearing something that had been touched, lived in, by someone so … so … she doesn’t have the words.

The Emperor, and by the extension, his Empire, sometimes feel a bit unreal to Phasma, not that she would ever voice that thought aloud. But they are something she has dedicated her entire life to, something she has sworn to honour. Something that has been put on a pedestal so high she sometimes wonders what she will _do_ when, not if, the First Order accomplishes its grand goal, its master plan.

But such wonderings are hardly appropriate for a battlefield, so Phasma shoves them back, into the distant crooks of her mind, where they would hopefully stay for the duration of the battle. Longer, if she is lucky.

“Ma’am,” one of her troopers says, “Lord Ren has arrived with reinforcements.”

“We don’t _need_ reinforcements,” Phasma snaps.

She turns to where she can see a shuttle landing. Despite the fact that there is a literal _battle_ going on, Ren takes his sweet time going down the ramp, strutting like a peacock.

Well. All the better for Phasma. She will not let the likes of Ren take her victory from her.

She shoots and shoots and shoots, until he hands are aching and her brain can only think in terms of _targets_ and _allies_ , until her side of the battlefield is quite clear, save for the corpses of the fallen natives and (in much rarer cases) stormtroopers.

Ren, on the other hand, appears to still be struggling with his part. Phasma watches him hack at the enemy as if his sword were an axe. He swings wildly and without control, oftentimes with too much strength.

She has seen that sort of behaviour before, in young, impetuous troopers. Ren may not be a child, but that’s the act of children, eager to play at war, yet not mature enough to understand what exactly it entails. An act of fools who let their bloodlust and desire for victory carry them.

Usually, they don’t last long.

It’s merely professional interest, Phasma decides, as she watches the Sith pretender in question dodge an arrow aimed squarely at his chest without looking. The arrow would have killed him, she’s sure. The fool insists on fighting without armour.

Is it the Force? It has to be. There is no way in hell Ren would have survived this long had it not been the doing of some mystical thing from above guarding him, keeping him alive. Probably for some purpose. Phasma hopes it’s the fulfilment of the First Order’s ambitions.

Maybe even growing into the legacy of his famed grandfather.

She scoffs.

She has a holorecording, in her quarters back on Starkiller, one of her most precious possessions. It’s an excerpt from the holo-journal of an old Imperial stormtrooper, a member of the 501st. Perhaps even the First Legion, but she can’t know for sure. It’s a recording, only a few moments long, of Vader’s Fist in action.

And their commander is with them, tall and imperious, directing their forces in a calm, detached voice, simultaneously killing in a controlled, methodical manner, keeping his power and his emotions checked on a tight leash.

And Phasma sees Ren now, growling and seething. There is no discipline, no finesse.

She remembers old Imperial gossip. They called Vader the Emperor’s attack dog.

They had no idea.

Yes, Phasma decides. It must be so. That Force that Ren babbles on and on—it must have taken a special interest in him. There is no other explanation.

It angers her to think that _he_ , of all people, is considered the First Order’s fines warrior, all on a random whim of some energy field, when so many of her soldiers are far more deserving. When _she_ is far more deserving.

But if the Force is adamant, then so be it. Phasma will find great amusement in the day it rescinds its gifts, and then, the Supreme Leader shall see who is truly deserving of that title.

_~~(Nor Phasma nor “Supreme Leader” Snoke are alive to witness that day. Kylo Ren falls nonetheless.)~~ _


End file.
